The Girl Eating Oysters Stewart Florsheim

The Diagnosis

We do everything but name the disease.
My mother wants to know if it is curable
and the words begin to bounce off the walls:
nerves, muscles, breath, stop
muscles, nerves, stop, breath.

She knows this silence
so she just looks at me and will not let go.
Back on the street, a sudden gale so strong
I can barely push my mother’s wheelchair up the hill.
A tug-of-war, perhaps, in reverse
as I imagine trying to deliver my mother
but her wheelchair knocks me down and this time
there is nothing I can do to save her.


April 2004 ContentsPDF2River